Making Coffee
by alwaysflying
Summary: Some people need caffeine in the morning more than others. However, there are other ways to get it than just DRINKING coffee...


"Morning, Roger," Mark calls sleepily from his room, hearing the clang of the coffee maker as it is set into place.

Roger does not turn, but calls jokingly, "Who you got in there, Mark?"

"So eloquent a remark from the sex god himself," Mark shoots back, sounding more awake now. Finally. It's eleven already, and as Roger is all too aware of, only the aroma of coffee is capable of awakening the ever-drowsy filmmaker. Making coffee, then, is a service to not only Roger himself, but Mark as well. Through that logic, Mark should be _thanking _him.

And yet, it is only: "Is the coffee ready?"

"No, Mark," sighs Roger, exasperated. "The coffee isn't ready."

"Tell me when it is," comes a muffled voice from Mark, probably as a result of his burying his head in his pillow.

Roger, who would be extremely appreciative if he had company other than the sleepy Mark and vibrating coffee maker (and they've never been able to figure out _why _it vibrates; the guy who sold it to them said it always did that, but then again, that guy was the one who sold them the microwave, and… that vibrates too, sometimes. Some things in life, it's better not to question).

"Hey, Mark?" calls Roger, pouring coffee into a mug. "Coffee's ready!"

There is a loud clanking noise as Mark hurls his pillow at the door. A muttered "fuck" is audible as the pillow hits something of value instead, and Roger, deeply amused, calls, "Should I help you out there, buddy?"

"Fuck you," Mark mumbles, and he gets to his feet. "FUCK!" he yells.

"Is the floor cold?" Roger calls in mock-sympathy.

"FUCK YOU!"

Mark is not a morning person.

Roger wonders if perhaps it might be wise to withhold the coffee for some acceptable period of time before Mark begins to offer Roger all sorts of valuables if he could just _please _have some caffeine. While this sounds like a wildly entertaining idea, it also threatens to yield certain death – or at least, severe injury and the withholding of a trip to the hospital in favor of Mark savoring his coffee, sip by sip.

Chances are, if Roger refused to give him coffee, Mark might explode.

Then there would be little bits of camera scattered all over the room, and, well, with Mark… in pieces… that would leave Roger to clean it up, wouldn't it?

Oh, the woes of the homicidal struggling artist.

As Mark slumps into a chair, he slams his arm down on the table. "Coffee," he begs weakly, his voice cracking.

"Who'd you do?" Roger teases.

Mark manages to muster up the energy to raise his left arm, lean his elbow on the table, and slowly raise his middle finger.

"Point taken," quips Roger. He slides the coffee mug across the table to Mark's hands. The look of utter relief on the filmmaker's face spreads into a near-smile as he raises the hot beverage to his lips.

With a smirk, Roger waits until Mark sets the mug down before inquiring, "Are you hungover or just exhausted?"

"Probably both," Mark mumbles, taking another long sip. "Have I ever told you I love you?"

"Don't think you mentioned it, no," Roger laughs. "Why? Has coffee made you recognize your true feelings for me?"

Mark scrunches his face up in distaste. "Um, no," he says. "I was kidding."

"I know, Mark," Roger informs him bluntly. "So was I."

"Oh."

There is silence. Rather, there is no dialogue for a moment as Mark noisily slurps his coffee with Roger looking on in mild disgust.

"You really need that coffee to live, don't you?" he observes.

"What was your first clue?"

Roger pretends to consider it. "Well… if I was going to throw something out the window, would you rather it be Mr. Coffee or your camera?"

"Well," says Mark in all seriousness, "I guess Mr. Coffee could kind of _be _a camera."

Roger, horrified, stares at him.

"Yeah," Mark continues. "I mean, it… well, it vibrates."

"I'd noticed," Roger remarks dryly.

Paying Roger not the slightest bit of attention, Mark adds, "I guess if I, like, walked around with Mr. Coffee taped to my head, I could probably get money thrown at me, right? For… entertaining people. Schadenfreude, right?" he exclaims, getting slightly overexcited. "Yeah! Then I could buy a new camera! Or, assuming you _don't _throw my camera out the window… I could buy a _VCR_!"

Roger raises his eyebrows. "Mark," he says slowly, "we don't own a TV."

Mark shrugs. "VCRs are really fun," he informs his roommate serenely. "Have you ever tried putting your finger in the floppy little door thing?"

Roger slowly shakes his head.

"Oh…" Mark trails off, looking slightly less eager. "Well, you should try it," he says at last, and pats Roger on the shoulder. "Do we have any bagels?"

"When have you ever known us to have bagels?" Roger asks. "No, I'm serious. When have we ever had bagels?"

Mark shrugs. "Jews like bagels, did you know that?" Before Roger can say that yes, he actually _did_ know that, Mark hastily adds, "I'm Jewish. By the way. In case you didn't know."

"Mark," says Roger, voice lowered to an urgent hiss, "_what are you on_?"

"On?" echoes Mark, who normally can recognize the phrase "on" within a fraction of an instant.

Roger nods jerkily. "What. Did. You. Put. In. Your. Body?"

Mark giggles hysterically, accidentally blowing bubbles in his coffee.

"Okay," says Roger slowly. "I'm really, really scared now."

"Rog-Rog?" asks Mark in a small voice.

"Rog-Rog?" echoes another voice. Roger turns to the doorway. It's Collins. Thank _god_.

The aforementioned guitarist springs to his feet. "Collins!" he yells. "Save me! Mark is, like, spazzing out." He gestures to his roommate, who is currently rolling around on his back on the couch, squirming and squealing and gazing at the coffee on the kitchen table.

"Jesus, Mark," says Collins, laying a stack of crisp twenty-dollar bills on the counter. Instinctively, Roger takes several and pockets them, then follows Collins to the couch.

Mark sits up abruptly.

Roger and Collins recoil upon seeing how wide and dilated Mark's eyes are. "Hey, Cohen?" prods Collins cautiously. "Are you o – holy shit! Roger! He just fucking bit me!"

Sure enough, Mark's teeth are clamped around Collins' left index finger. "Wow," Roger mumbles. "That's really something, dude." He looks at Mark, kneeling down in front of the couch and trying to make eye contact with the filmmaker. "Hey, Mark? Are you okay, pal – ow! Jesus Christ! Keep your fucking teeth off my finger!"

Mark squeals in delight, now holding Roger's finger between his teeth while Collins dramatically checks for signs of blood. "Yo, dude, if you swallow HIV-positive blood, it is not my fault," Roger mumbles. Mark immediately releases the captive finger and allows Roger to wrap it in his shirt.

"I think I'm gonna go," Collins says slowly.

"No!" shrieks Roger. "Don't leave me here with him! He's high on _caffiene_! Like Joanne on Wednesdays!" It is common knowledge amongst the bohemians that Wednesdays are Joanne's busiest days, and that she formally requests, every Tuesday at around four, for the office coffee machine to be delivered to her office. She then conveniently "forgets" to return the machine until about four on Wednesday, at which time she _tsk_s and makes some comment about how it must have slipped her mind – Wednesdays are _so busy_, after all.

"Yeah!" yells Collins in acknowledgement. "Get Joanne over here! We can have a hyper party!" Seeing Roger's terrified eyes, Collins chuckles and amends, "Or, you know, we could just… get her to bring those pills."

"The decaf pills?" Roger asks, then immediately realizes his mistake. It is a bit too similar to saying "dentist" in front of a four-year-old; at Roger's mention of the word "decaf," Mark springs to his feet, grabs the phone, and begins dragging it away from the wall in hopes of permanently disconnecting it.

"Right," says Collins, eyes wide as he watches this hysterical display. "Um. Mark. Please release the phone."

Mark tilts his head inquisitively.

"Yeah. _Let the phone go_, buddy."

Roger snickers. "Was I like this during withdrawal?"

"Ten times worse," Collins says instantly, then refocues his attention to Mark. "Look, pal. Just let _go _of the phone."

"No!" shrieks Mark in a panic. He bolts, heading for the door. Collins, who has had informal training in dealing with manic artists (and the body to prove it), catches Mark around the waist and, without much difficulty, carries him into his room. Roger follows, holding Mark's feet to prevent anyone from being kicked in the head (or the balls).

"I wanna have my _coffee_," Mark wails.

"I _gave _you coffee," Roger nearly howls. _This is getting ridiculous_. "I _gave _you coffee, Mark."

Mark's eyes widen hugely. "Roger," he rasps. "You gave me _decaf_."

Collins takes several awkward steps for the door. "I," he says solemnly, "am going to go buy coffee mix. Roger, you're retarded. Mark, you're insane. Be back in a few."

The door slams.

After maybe ten minutes, a delirious Mark slurs, "Is the coffee ready?"

"Hey, Mark?" says Roger slowly. "I know a way decaf can wake you up."

"How?"

After dipping a finger in the mug to make certain of the fact that it is cold by now, Roger swings his arm back and splashes the murky brown liquid all over Mark's bed, body, and clothing.

"You've had your coffee," Roger snickers.

Mark surveys his body, eyes much more awake than they were previously. "Clearly," he drawls.

The door bangs open, and Collins enters, taking in the sight before him. He sets a paper cup of coffee on the counter, stares at Mark, and slowly turns to face Roger.

"Did you…?"

"Yep."

"You know," Collins says lightly, "if you consider _that _homo-erotic, just think of what you could do with the vibrating coffee maker."

Making more sense than he has been all morning, Mark calmly inquires, "Then what would we do when the coffee's ready?"

"Oh," says Roger, deep in thought. "Oh, the possibilities."

"And I," says Collins dryly, "thought it was just milk versus sugar."


End file.
